


First Response

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 1.01, Angst, Friendship, Gen, pilot, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1.01. Who found Barry after he was struck by lightning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Response

Where the  _hell_ is Allen?

David knows he has a tendency to take out his feelings onto other people, but he can't crush the rising unease when the entire building goes dark. Even the hum of air conditioners falters, fails. Hands gravitate towards belts, ready to seize holstered guns in the case of an attack, but David feels the stillness and knows it isn't coming. This wasn't preplanned. This wasn't supposed to  _happen_.

The entire city is dark and disconcertingly quiet, so he projects, lets his voice fill the room, taking control of the one thing he can. "Why aren't the generators online?"

"The power surge knocked out the entire system," a tech replies, fishing around the room with a flashlight, searching for answers.

David can scarcely repress a shudder of horror at the thought that their generators  _failed_. They've got the best in the system.

What's going to happen to hospital patients on  _life-sustaining_ devices?

He tries to imagine the chaos at St. Andrew's, the closest facility; has to hope that whatever they have is enough to keep their charges  _alive_ while the world comes back together.

"Get in contact with St. Andrew's," he tells the nearest officer, "send a team over to help."

"Yes, sir."

David wonders if it's safe to go outside, if the air out there is superheated or radioactive, but there's an open window nearby and no one is clutching their throat or coughing up blood, so he has to take the chance. This is what they do: they take calculated risks. In the midst of a catastrophe, they have to think on their feet, have to be prepared to venture where they wouldn't send unarmed civilians, to take chances on gut feelings.

"I need a team out at Star Labs, too," he adds, carrying the line of thought.

No one tells him  _it's too dangerous_. They just throw on bulletproof vests and get to work.

The radios aren't operational, either, so he elects team leaders and tells them to report to him  _as soon as possible_ via cell phone, the only device at his disposal that  _is_ still up and running. He's kicking himself for not charging it earlier – it's low, maybe fifteen percent – but it should last. Hopefully long enough for the techies to get the power back on.

Focusing on the precinct, he feels calmer as more people congregate, directing them, watching them go, aware that he'll need to catch up with them, soon, on the ground, but unable to shake a nagging thought.

Allen was upstairs in the lab when the power went out.

A loud crackle of lightning makes the hairs on the back of David's neck stand, stills several officers before they resume their tasks, loading up and heading out.

David can't move, aware that the crash came so close it was almost  _on top of them_ , and he isn't afraid of storms but he's terrified of what he might find as he directs his gaze skyward, pulse hammering.

Grabbing the nearest person by the shoulder, he tells him, "If anything changes,  _find me_ ," before taking the stairs two at a time.

Thawne is still blinking after him, bewildered, but David doesn't notice as he reaches the door and shoves it open.

It's – bad. There's water all over the floor and glass vials shattered everywhere, great swaths of chemical spills painting the floor, and David isn't a scientist, he doesn't  _know_ what damage they could do, but he's aware of a body over an overturned rack, covered in glass, one hand hanging limply over the edge and bleeding onto the floor.

David's heart stops when he realizes what he's looking at.

_Allen._

Picking his way as quickly and carefully as he can, he cuts a path across the room, scarcely thinking about the chemicals anymore. He can't lose this kid. This is not supposed to  _happen_.

With trembling fingers, he feels for – and finds – a pulse, rapid, elevated, but  _there_. Letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, he pulls Allen's body away from the wreckage.

Allen isn't short, but he is lanky and it's easy enough for David to get him in a fireman's carry, choosing his footing equally carefully on the return trip.

 _Damn, damn, damn, damn_ , he thinks with each step because this is  _not_  how he envisioned this night going, he's supposed to be  _home_ with  _Rob_  by now, and he needs to call Rob, if Rob's hurt he's going to lose his badge because Dr. Harrison Wells will pay for it, but he has to focus on the  _now_  because there's a deadweight against his shoulders and he has to keep Allen alive. He has to focus.

Luckily, he's a cop: it's what he does best.

So he doesn't think about how he's carrying the body of the overeager college kid who always had  _answers_ , who delivered, who made up for his faults with exemplary reports, even if he feels a strange twist of guilt that he never told him  _thank you_ , always diverted to  _clean up your lab_ or  _don't be late next time_. He has to focus on the job: get him to safety, get him to a hospital.

Once they're in the hallway, David sets him down carefully on the marble floor, ignores the way he's got Allen's blood on his clothes, pulls out his phone and hits nine-one-one. "I have a critically injured CSI hit by lightning at the Central City Police Station," he says brusquely, stating his case clearly, effectively: "I need an ambulance."

He stays on the line, keeps a hand on Allen's wrist, monitoring his pulse, and he can't help the slightly frantic tone to his voice as he speaks to the emergency operator.

"ETA is two minutes," the woman reassures, far enough away from the crisis to be calm.

David doesn't have the same luxury, feeling Allen's pulse racing. It's fast – it's very fast – and David is terrified that it's just going to  _stop_ , that his heart will give out and suddenly he won't need an ambulance anymore.

Except – he can't start thinking like that. Allen will be fine.

Just fine.

"Stay with me," he growls, gripping his wrist hard, aware that he'll never forgive Allen if he dies.

He's lost officers before, but something about losing a kid like Allen hits him hard.

Kids aren't supposed to  _die_.

 _He's twenty five_ , a methodical side of him reminds, but it doesn't make a difference, Allen has never struck him as anything other than too young to be doing the job he does, barely keeping up with the people in his field. He's chronically late and disorganized and he's not reliable, but he does what he does  _well_ , passionately, and the thought of burying him makes David's chest hurt.

He's still kneeling on the floor beside him when the EMTs finally arrive.

David is okay surrendering him to their care, feeling a profound wave of relief sweep over him as they finally get him on a stretcher and carry him away.

He doesn't know if Allen will be okay, but having him in the hands of medical professionals makes it  _seem_ like he will be, and that's all David needs to calm down.

He thinks,  _I have to call West._

It's a painful conversation, especially since Joe  _doesn't pick up his phone_. David simply tells him to call back as soon as he can and hangs up.

He doesn't know what other mysteries the night holds – what sort of painful realities they'll face, how many people are dead – but he does know one thing.

However hard disaster strikes, they're going to be there, rooting through the rubble, saving lives, restoring order.

They're going to get this under  _control_.

And Allen is going to be fine.

David repeats it to himself until he finally believes it, until it's three in the morning and he's exhausted but they have generators online, communications are back up, and things start moving more smoothly. Trying to keep up with the flood of information, he keeps assigning projects to other people – assess Star Labs, keep assisting St. Andrew's, check other hospitals in the area – and standing by at the helm.

At last – as dawn approaches and things start to even out, regular power coming back online as the technicians finally reboot the system – David feels himself exhale deeply, feels the storm finally retreating.

They still have a lot to take care of. And there will be more in the coming months.

But for now, he can finally call it, release officers who have been on duty almost as long as he has,  _longer_ , and coordinate with the morning shift. Most of them are early, wanting to know details as soon as possible, frowning thoughtfully as he explains all that he knows. David knows that they would have come sooner except they have lives, too, families to comfort, insecurities to battle. None of them knew what happened when the energy washed over the city and the power blew out, and that unknown factor kept everyone barricaded in their homes, too afraid to venture out until morning light revealed the calm after the storm.

So he debriefs them, personally sees to it that everyone who was part of the night shift has a chance to go off duty, get a coffee, snatch a few hours of sleep, anything to come down from the high. They need it – badly – and he knows it, gently clasps shoulders, halting overtaxed officers mid-step and telling them quietly to  _go home._

He's been texting Rob all night, keeping him as updated as he can without completely running his phone battery into the ground, and it's on its last legs, he needs to go home, charge it, take a break, but he has one last thing to take care of before he does so.

. o .

West's daughter – Iris – is there.

She looks at him and he knows that she's been crying, knows it even as her hand grips Allen's tightly. Making promises she doesn't know she can keep.  _Stay alive._

_Stay alive, Barry._

He doesn't know what to say, isn't one for speeches, and looking at Allen, hooked up to machines, barely breathing, he feels heartache threaten to overtake him.

 _Don't die._ Furious, he orders,  _Don't you dare die, Barry._

Barry doesn't respond. Of course not.

David doesn't even have the guts to say it aloud.

Instead he straightens his shoulders, rests one hand the frame around Barry's bed, and says simply, "He's going to be fine."

Then he walks away, telling her that she can call the department if she needs to for details, even though he's certain the staff already gave her all the information he gave them.

It'll work out. Of that, David is certain.

. o .

It still takes nine months for Barry to prove him right.

It's so jarring, to see him awake,  _alive_ , that David instinctively reverts to his usual cynicism, like he's trying to connect two points in time, to omit the last nine months, to pretend they never happened.

Except he can't, and the longer he looks at Barry, hears him speaking, realizes he is  _alive_ , the more emotional he feels, overcome with relief.

There's a moment before Barry takes off again where David is able to catch him by a noticeably firmer shoulder, to tell him quietly, out of earshot of anyone else, "It's good to have you back, Barry."

And he sees the way it makes Barry smile, thinks  _I'm glad you gave me a chance to say that_ , and then he gives him a nudge, sending him on his way again.

Barry goes, hot on the heels of a case, and the coming months won't be easy for them – any of them – but it will be  _okay_.

That's all the Captain Singh needs it to be. Everything else, he can work with.

He calls Rob, tells him,  _I'll be home early tonight_ , and hangs up.

Because finally, finally, finally – things are okay again.


End file.
